


Rings & Retribution - "TROUSERS ON"-VERSION

by LivaWilborg



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Haytham being the underdog for once, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-09-05 21:11:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 18,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16818529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/pseuds/LivaWilborg
Summary: PLEASE NOTE: THIS STORY IS THE SAME AS THE PREVIOUS "RINGS & RETRIBUTION" I POSTED, EXCEPT NOBODY IS BONKING ANYONE AND EVERYONE KEEPS THEIR TROUSERS ON.I KNOW, WEIRD, RIGHT?!BUT IT MAKES FOR A DIFFERENT CHARACTER DYNAMIC.  IF SMUT IS WHAT YOU'RE HERE FOR, HOWEVER, YOU'VE COME TO THE WRONG PLACE. GO HERE INSTEAD:Rings & Retribution "Trousers Off"-Version=DThere is a new threat lurking in the shadows of the ancient war; a group of criminals who prey on Templars and Assassins alike to get their ancient trinkets.Now, Haytham has vanished and the Templars are searching desperately for their Grand Master.This is a story about torture, ethics, love and vengeance, and how Haytham deals with the aftermath of having been the underdog.





	1. Haytham - Victim

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to [Enilosa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enilosa/pseuds/enilosa) for the beta read, completely excellent comments and adjustments along the way! Thank you so much for your help!! This story would have been a lot poorer without your assistance.  
> Also a huge thanks to [Aniphine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aniphine/pseuds/Aniphine) for the early beta-read.  
> You both rock! Thank you so much for your help! =D  
> Any mistakes left are because I'm an idiot who rewrote, removed, changed and added some scenes at the last minute. 
> 
> Also also: a huge thanks to [ Fanfiction_Lurker_1](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fanfiction_Lurker_1/pseuds/Fanfiction_Lurker_1) for actually making me post this version. =D Thank you so much for reading and encouraging and providing much needed character evaluations. I massively appreciate your time and effort! ^^ (Oh, Achilles, why must we argue so…)  
> 

**…Day 3**

The light cut his eyes when he tried to force them open, battling the dry blood and bruises. The eyes shut themselves again; he gave up.

The pain was a constant companion as he lay on the cold dirt floor, beaten and broken. His legs spasmed painfully, and the feet brushing against the floor forced a pained moan from his lips. They had cut his bare feet so he wouldn’t run. Cut deep.

The agony felt like a living thing inhabiting his body instead of him. No. He hid inside it. His body _was_ the pain and the man whose name was Haytham was just a flickering visitor, there one moment, gone the next.

They would be back soon.

**Day 5**

He hadn’t spoken a single word since they had taken him. Overpowered him. Strength in numbers. Three had died. Three had been damaged. He couldn’t keep them at bay.

He cursed them in his thoughts. Cursed himself, mostly.

In the beginning, he had realised they knew his allegiance; their questions obviously told him as much. They wanted information on relics, on ancient sites, on secrets closely guarded by the Temple. But their questions were curiously vague. And then they started asking about the movements of the Grand Master.

Somehow, the idiots thought they had captured Lee.

With this realisation, he had laughed at them. The mirth completely outplayed the pain and the hysterical laughter sprayed blood from the wounds on his lips, in his mouth, dripping down from his nose, on the man who asked the questions.

The punishment had been severe. He felt sure there were broken ribs because every gasping breath was a battle. But it was worth it, he felt.

The pain was just a given fact. It was life – undeniable, held no wonder, no fear, no hope.

 _Charles, you owe me a drink…_ Haytham thought vaguely and drifted into a fitful half-sleep.

**Day 9**

“I’ll take your ring, I think. For my collection. You understand.”

Haytham balled his hand, bound to the chair he sat in, into a fist, denying them access when they grabbed for the ring. Stubbornly and silently he fought them, biting down a hiss of pain when the Ferret viciously stabbed his fingers against one of the deep burn-wounds on Haytham’s chest. He knew it wouldn’t last long before they got what they wanted. But he’d be damned before he _gave_ them anything.

The Questioner laughed, looking at the struggle that nearly toppled Haytham’s chair.

“Alright, leave him.”

The helpers; the Brute, the Boy, the Ferret, stepped aside, leaving space for their leader.

The Questioner leaned down, his hands on Haytham’s arms, their faces so close it was almost intimate.

“You could just give me what I want, Mister Lee... It won’t cost you anything. You know you’ll die no matter what you do. Why not just tell me what I want to know?”

…The man was probably right, Haytham thought. He _would_ most likely die out here, wherever he was. With the snowy forest he’d seen through the windows in the cabin, he could be anywhere in the blasted Colonies. He seriously doubted anyone would reach him in time to help him and he had yet to find a way to escape. An opening. A way to pick the locks of the chains that bound him.

They were impressively vigilant in monitoring him.

Haytham closed his eyes, exhausted.

The Questioner’s hand shot out, hit Haytham’s cheek a couple of times. “Are you even awake, Charlie Templar?”

“Thank you kindly.” Haytham said, the words thin and hesitant on his broken lips. “I’m awake.”

When his forehead impacted with the Questioner’s face, he knew the retribution would be swift and terrible.

He wasn’t wrong.

**Day 11**

The broken hand burned. But the good hand clutched the slim, pointy shard of broken pottery he had found in the empty room they kept him in. Slowly, meticulously, he’d dug it out of the hard, dirt floor where it had once been lodged and forgotten. It wasn’t small enough to fit in the keyhole of the manacles to pick the lock, but he clung to it nonetheless.

The small potential weapon was hope. Foolish. But still hope.

Knowing they would soon have to lose interest in him, he tried to force himself to get a few moments of exhausted sleep. If he got any chance, any at all, he had to be ready to take it.

When they came, he wasn’t surprised to see all six of them. The Questioner, the Brute, the Boy, the Ferret, the Drunk, and the Notary.

The Questioner put the lamp he held down on the cold ground. Haytham closed his eyes against the brightness.

“I’ve wasted far too long on you.” the Questioner stated.

“You’re not Brotherhood.” Haytham said, the voice, unused since they broke his hand to steal his ring, sounding strange in his ears.

“No. We prey on both and you’re so focused on each other, we get away with it. You both hide so many delicious, profitable secrets. It draws attention.” He laughed.

“I wouldn’t have thought...” Haytham looked at him. “…that you had much attention to draw.”

The Questioner gave a snort, the Brute a growl, the Drunk laughed.

“There’s a lot of fight in you. I respect that, despite the disappointment.” The Questioner said and knelt next to Haytham. “Well, to business: Your life ends in a few moments. You are useless and I’ve given up. All I can pressure you with is pain, which is not enough.” He shrugged. “But I’m not cruel. Do you have a last request?” he asked, almost gently.

“Two.”

The Questioner nodded for him to continue.

“Let me see the sky. And let me die unchained. Please.”

“Granted.”

“Thank you.”

The Questioner got up and brushed the knee that had touched the ground off with an amount of disgust. “I’ll turn in now; it’s been a long, fruitless day. …Ten days.” He sighed and turned to the Brute. “Take him outside, unchain him, and shoot him.” The Questioner turned to leave, but stopped in the doorway. “Throw the corpse where I don’t have to see it when we leave tomorrow. I’m thoroughly sick of Mister Lee.” he said before he left.

o-0-o

He let the Brute drag him, ignoring the pride that would have bidden him to meet his doom on his feet. The weaker they perceived him, the better. The shard of pottery was hidden in his fist. Haytham was thrown unceremoniously to his knees in the moonlit snow outside the cabin.

~click~

Haytham didn’t give the Brute time to move after the first lock opened and his hand was free. Blind desperation fuelled his movements. He twisted himself on the ground and punched the man, towering behind him, in the groin with as much force as he could muster. The loose manacle, dangling from his broken hand, swung towards the Brute’s face when he doubled over, wheezing for breath, and the small clay shard held between Haytham’s fingers dug deep into the man’s throat. The struggling, bleeding body became the shield that kept the Ferret’s gunshot away.

A second shot rang out in the crisp, snow-clad night. There was a scream. Something fell and broke on the floor inside the hunting cabin.

Haytham couldn’t feel his hand, his body. The reactions simply came through waves of numbing pain and the Brute’s knife was buried in the Ferret’s leg, then his chest, when he fell and struggled.

There was a fresh wound to Haytham’s arm, left when he parried the Ferret’s knife. The Notary was running into the house, he saw out of the corner of his eye, as he repeatedly stabbed the dead man on the ground, unable to stop himself.

He ducked on instinct when a fresh gunshot rang out from inside the cabin and the door flew open. The Questioner came running, ignoring Haytham, and set a course for the side of the house.

Haytham wrested himself from the corpse he still held pinned to the ground. Painfully, slowly, he forced himself to his wounded feet and hobbled after the fleeing man.

A horse he had heard through the walls of the cabin, through long hours of waiting for a fresh session of agony, thundered away through the snow. There was a wordless shout and Haytham barely realised it was his as he struggled barefoot through the thick snowdrifts. There were more horses stabled, he knew, but controlling an animal bareback, or saddling it, putting his wounded feet in the stirrups, wasn’t even an option to him. The task of following the Questioner was made easier when he reached the horse’s trail through the white and any other thought evaporated.

He hobbled through the night, following the Questioner. The damned beast of a criminal stole his ring!


	2. Shay - Rescuer

“Slimy lobcock…” Shay kicked the corpse at his feet before quickly inspecting the cut across his ribs that had been the dead man’s last action. It bled freely. It had been a lucky slash, going through the leather of his coat and slicing his side. He pressed his arm to the wound as he hurriedly went through the few rooms of the cabin. All clear, but one small room was bare of furniture and in the light from the lamp left on the floor, he could see the tiny window was boarded up.

They had kept the Grand Master of the Temple in a dark room hardly bigger than a pantry! Biting down his fury, he hurried on.

Through the brief bit of fighting earlier, he had heard a shot coming from the nightscape outside, and his heart was pounding furiously as he realised what he might find. The last ten days’ worth of fevered searching might be for nothing.

…Two dead men were draped in the snow outside the cabin. One lying face-down in the moonlit heaps of white; a dark flower of blood spread around his large body. Another, thin and short, lying prone on his back, unrecognisable with the multiple stab wounds to his face.

A small sigh of relief found its way to Shay’s lips.

“Hope you had time to be pretty before you died, mate,” he muttered at the corpse with the broken face, casting his eyes around the forest edge pressing in on the hunting cabin. Tracks were many and varied; there’d been no snowfall all day and there had obviously been traffic of many feet all around.

“Haytham!” he shouted, sheathing the spent pistol and drawing his knife in case someone was still alive. One had escaped, he knew, but he’d been too busy fighting to stop the man.

“Haytham!” he shouted again. No answer. Everything had fallen quiet in the cold, crisp night. He looked around again. There had been a lot of traffic – but only one pair of feet, blood-smeared by the look of the shadows left on the snow, were bootless.

He followed, knife in hand.

o-0-o

“Sir!”

No reaction.

Shay ran to catch up.

It had taken a while to find him, though he’d not gotten far. The horse Haytham evidently followed had gone into the forest where there was less snow and less moonlight, making tracking difficult. Beyond the stretch of trees was a large clearing and Shay had breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted the man staggering and struggling down the path the horse had made in the snowdrifts.

“Sir! Stop!” Shay was finally close, reached out and then leapt back, barely avoiding the knife that slashed at him wildly when Haytham turned.

“It’s me. Peace!” Quietly, Shay sheathed his weapon and held out his hands.

Haytham stared at him, uncomprehending, for a few long heartbeats. “Shay…” he finally said. The hand holding the knife fell to his side and it seemed as though he was about to keel over.

He was barefoot and dressed only in pants and a torn shirt in the biting cold. There was ten days’ worth of beard on his face and so much dirt and blood covering him, Shay couldn’t judge how hurt he was. He was barely recognisable.

“Let’s get out of here. We need to get you to safety. Let me help y-”

“No!” The knife was raised again, keeping Shay at bay. Haytham closed his eyes and the hand holding the knife shook visibly.

“Sir, you’re hurt.” Shay began softly. “You have t-“

“Just follow him!” Haytham snapped, and for a brief moment, he was recognisable again. Then he gestured vaguely in the direction the rider had gone. “He has… Stop him.”

Slowly Shay reached out and put a hand over Haytham’s, gently directing the blade of the knife away. “If I run off and leave you, Sir, I’ll likely find you dead in the snow when I return. You can barely stand.“

_I could topple you with a feather…_ he thought, quietly horrified.

Haytham looked blankly at the knife he held. Then he closed his eyes as though fighting to pull himself together. “I can’t… I won’t let him. Go after him!” He tried to free himself, obviously expecting Shay to let go.

“Alright. I’m sorry, Sir.” Shay gently moved his hand so he could take the knife and then his fist connected with Haytham’s cheek.

There had to be a rule somewhere about not knocking the Grand Master of your Rite out, even if he _was_ endangering his own life by being a stubborn bastard. There’d probably be consequences, Shay thought vaguely, as Haytham collapsed in a heap in the snow in front of him. There was a last tiny spark of struggle before he lay still on the ground. Shay threw aside the knife he’d taken from Haytham’s fingers when he fell.

Briefly debating with himself whether he should sprint back and get his horse, to make transporting the Grand Master easier, Shay reached the conclusion that he might as well have let the man run off on his insane quest if he was just going to leave him on the ground anyway.

The wound in his side protested furiously when he lifted Haytham up on his shoulder. It would be a very long trip to safety.

o-0-o

“Open up!” He drew one of the spent pistols, using the weapon’s grip for a door hammer. The sound reverberated in the icy, silent darkness and then he could hear the sound of something breaking, loud swearing, a woman’s scream, and finally footsteps from inside.

“Open the damned door. I need help and I’ll pay!” Shay shouted, feeling the presence of people in the taproom on the other side. “If you don’t open the door, I will!”

“What do you want!” came a male voice from inside.

“My commander is wounded. I need help,” he stated loudly, forcing himself to only use his frustration on trying to get warm. The shirt and vest under his coat were soaked with blood from the wound and felt like a large patch of ice on his ribs. Most of the night was a blur of freezing pain.

Stabled behind the cabin where Haytham had been imprisoned, he had found several horses and a wagon. Hurriedly, he had scavenged blankets and supplies from the hunting cabin and tried to make the Grand Master as comfortable and warm as possible, bunched into the wagon, but he dared not stay there in case someone should return.

“If you don’t let us in, we’ll die!” he shouted, shaking with the cold that had bitten him mercilessly while he sat on the driver’s seat atop the wagon for the better part of the night.

“Why should I trust you?” came the reluctant reply from inside.

“How the sodding Hell do taverns work if not by receiving visitors!” Shay shouted, patience snapping like a brittle twig. He felt fairly certain he could open the door; perhaps not with a kick, his feet had gone numb with cold several hours ago, but he could shoulder his way to warmth. As he prepared to do so, the door opened a crack and a pudgy, sour, suspicious face peeked out at him.

So, a kick it was anyway. The impact made his leg hum painfully and the wound screamed, but the innkeeper soon found himself staring down the barrel of a pistol. “You can help me because I make you, or because I pay you. Choose!” Shay demanded. He felt glad he could rest the weapon on the man’s forehead, so he wouldn’t see how much his hand shook.

The pudgy innkeeper went cross-eyed staring at the barrel. Behind him, a woman in her nightgown, her blond hair dishevelled from sleep, stared pale and frightened in the shaky light from the lamp standing on the bar in the taproom. A young, dark-haired girl was hiding behind her. “We like money. You can pay.” the child said, taking a few hurried steps towards the door before her mother caught her.

“Thank you!” Shay stated, putting the pistol back in his belt. The heavy scent of alcohol hit his face when the innkeeper released the breath he’d been holding.

“You!” Shay gestured at the girl and the woman. “I need the best room in the house, cloth for bandages, hot water, brandy, whatever you have that might still a fever. Get a fire burning as fast as possible.” He turned to look at the innkeeper: “You! Help me get my commander inside and stable the horses. Put the wagon somewhere out of sight.” He took a step towards the door, realising everyone was frozen in place.

“ _Now_!” Shay demanded sharply, in the same tone he used aboard the _Morrigan_ for giving orders, and watched as the small family finally sprang into action. 

o-0-o

The exhaustion had slowly sneaked up on him as the night progressed, the fire in the grate heating the room and thawing his body.

Shay yawned. The rum-spiked mug of sweet tea in his hands felt unduly heavy as he emptied it.

His fingers finished cleaning and loading his pistols, calm, precise, of their own volition. Then he rose from his chair, biting down a groan of pain from the badly stitched wound in his side. He hadn’t been able to reach all of the gash that snaked around his ribs and had finally conscripted the innkeeper’s wife to patch him up, shaking her out of her obvious reluctance toward the task with an angrily thrown handful of coins. He’d felt like a ragdoll under hands that were obviously not used to this kind of work. At least she hadn’t vomited on him, Shay reasoned. She’d looked like she was about to when the needle pierced his broken flesh, painfully hesitantly.

He crossed the room, placed a pistol on the bedside table and one in his belt and then stood, looking at Haytham. The only colour on his skin was black bruises and he lay unmoving. It was a bit unreal seeing him with ten days’ worth of beard.

For about the hundredth time, Shay rested his fingers against the Grand Master’s neck. The pulse was weak, slow, but present, and his skin was no longer cold as death. There had been moments when they first carried Haytham inside, where Shay had honestly thought he’d lost him.

Shay stood indecisive for a while. It wouldn’t be long before a pale winter sun crept above the horizon and he needed sleep too. It had taken hours to clean and bandage the Grand Master’s wounds. Blood and dirt had needed to be soaked and wiped away before he could even begin to assess the damage.

A hand was broken, now set and wrapped in a splint as well as Shay could manage. Deep burns on Haytham’s chest and stomach looked like they were made with a poker. He’d even had to pick the lock of an iron manacle still attached to one wrist, finding the skin beneath raw and bitten. The head-wound and the cuts under Haytham’s feet were the worst, to Shay’s mind. Not so much because it was a cruel damage, once he finally managed to clean the wounds enough to actually see them properly, but because, in spite of the inflammation, they had begun to heal. They must have been some of the first injuries Haytham had sustained.

The anger he felt at all this damage was enough to clear his tired head somewhat. But under the anger lurked horror and a fresh slice of guilt. Horror, because he realised he was almost too late. Guilt, because he’d let the last one of the men who did this escape. His mind reeled. If circumstances had been just a tiny bit different, if Haytham had been a little less capable of aggression, Shay would have found him dead in the snow.

Dead. Gone.

Losing the cool, calm, steady guidance the Grand Master represented was a scenario that had haunted his thoughts during the frantic search since his disappearance; and how close it had come to being realised would probably fuel his nightmares in the foreseeable future.

He didn’t particularly look forward to telling Haytham that he’d let the last man escape, even though he stood by his decision. Shay shook his head; he’d worry about that when Haytham was conscious again and well enough to be moved; sooner, hopefully, than later. They were a little too close to Davenport Homestead for his liking and he felt both exposed and isolated, unable to get word to Lee or Gist that he had succeeded.

He locked the door to the room and moved a chair in front of it, so the back blocked the view if anyone would think to spy through the keyhole. Then he checked that the shutters were secured if anyone would try to gain entry through the windows. He knew he was probably seeing shadows where none existed, but taking chances in an already precarious situation wasn’t to his liking. These preparations completed, he wrapped a spare blanket around himself and tried to get comfortable enough in a chair by the bed to catch a few hours of sleep.


	3. Haytham - Readjustment

It was all wrong!

He was awake, he knew he was, but the rush of pain and fear and need to struggle was absent and he didn’t know what to make of it.

Waking meant a wave of panic that needed to be battled and agony asserting itself in flesh and joints too cold to move. But there was nothing. Only this half-dreamy state that was worse than all the pains of imprisonment.

Warmth. Calm. Haytham struggled, a sharp stab of cold dread shining through his consciousness, and he finally felt aware of a weight pressing down on him and of eyelids that _could_ open. With a gasp, he fought himself and felt a lash of pain from his ribs as he twisted, fighting for leverage. Warm agony shot through his hand when he tried to lean his weight on it and the feet – deep wounds, he remembered – brushed against each other forcing him awake for real.

“Sir!”

The hand that wasn’t aflame reached out. To push away or harm, he didn’t know.

“Haytham.”

Hands reached for him. His eyes finally opened, but he couldn’t fully comprehend his surroundings and…

“You’re safe, Sir. Be calm.”

There was a hand on his arm, warmth.

It took a while to get the blurry images to make sense. And it took a while longer to connect recognition and name with the man who was holding him, gently easing him back against pillows.

“You’re free and safe.” Shay’s hand stayed on Haytham’s upper arm and he sat on the edge of the bed. “Welcome back, Sir,” he said, the familiar, characteristic melody of his accent feeling like a calming touch to Haytham’s mind.

There were questions he should ask, his thoughts demanded hazily. _Where are we? What happened? How did you find me? How long have I been unconscious? How did we get here?_

“Shay.” was all he could manage, voice rough and hesitant.

“You should rest. Do you need something? Can you eat?” Shay asked gently.

“I… Hardly any pain.”

“That would be the laudanum and rum I finally got you to drink about an hour ago.” Shay grinned. “No worries, Sir, you’ll be in pain soon enough.”

“Oh…” Haytham struggled to find words, to force his head to clear.

Shay pulled the blankets up around him. “Rest if you can, Sir,” he said. “You’re safe.”

Haytham felt himself relax against the pillows, his eyes looking emptily around in the room. There was a lamp on a table. Shay’s deeply unfashionable sword and dagger were lying there, evidently in the process of being sharpened. There was a fire in the fireplace. A door with a chair pushed in front of it. Calm. Sensible. Order in the chaos.

“You don’t have to fight right now. Let me worry about the world for a spell.” Shay said. “Do you need anything?”

“No.” Haytham’s eyes closed gently and he felt a wave of warmth and heaviness wash over him. As sleep reach for him like a physical presence, he noted that Shay’s weight on the mattress next to him stayed put, and found that oddly reassuring.

o-0-o

Consciousness again. He was in pain. It was good. Like old company he knew he could trust.

He quickly let his eyes sweep the room. Familiar now. He remembered. There were a lot of questions he needed answers to, but for now, he was satisfied letting his heartbeat calm and body relax. He was warm. He’d forgotten what that felt like.

Haytham became aware of a weight on the mattress next to him and turned his gaze. Shay was curled up in a blanket as decently far away as he could get without tumbling over the edge of the large bed.

He closed his eyes again, feeling the hurt in his flesh and bones. Hand, feet, ribs, chest. They burned. There was a wound on his lower arm he had no idea where came from. He brushed the pain aside, let it exist unchallenged, as he’d had time to learn in the cabin. Concentrating on the sound of Shay’s regular breathing, he drifted off to sleep.

o-0-o

The bath-water had burned and bitten him but he’d gritted his teeth and submerged himself in it. It was almost cold now, the dirt of his imprisonment scrubbed off; the wounds, newly scabbed over, soaked. Only the broken hand had been kept dry, dangling over the side of the wooden bath-tub. If the linen bandages keeping the splint in place got wet, they might shrink in drying. Just the thought was enough to make the injury hurt afresh.

Getting out of the water was a small battle, but Haytham accepted it and took his time. He felt feverish, uncertain in his movements. He didn’t know if it was the heat from the bath that made him sluggish or just the exhaustion that came at him in waves on occasion.

He was quietly grateful for the brazier heating the small, dilapidated bath-house as he slowly dried himself off and, even slower, pulled on the borrowed pants and managed to button them. _It could have been worse; they could have had a draw-string_ , he mused to himself as he sank down in a chair, eager to take the weight off his wounded feet. The cuts were healing, and behind the pain was a constant itch he couldn’t scratch; something completely ready to steal his sanity the moment he let his guard down.

Haytham sighed. His good hand rubbed his eyes. It had been four days and he was still exhausted, still hurting, still fighting to keep the dark memories, marching on him like an army, away from his conscious mind. But it was just on the verge of lessening. He felt it. Tomorrow, perhaps, he’d suggest leaving this cursed tavern in the middle of nowhere. They were, unsurprisingly, the only patrons; probably for ages, if the decrepit state of the place was anything to go by.

He sat there for a while, gathering strength to get up, and worse… asking for Shay’s help in bandaging his feet, chest, and the gash on his arm. It seemed an almost insurmountable challenge, even though he realised it wasn’t getting easier by postponement.

Shay would give him privacy, at least up until the hastily approaching point where he’d start to worry if Haytham had drowned in the tub. But he’d also be within earshot and likely keep an eye on the door. He could just call him. As though the helplessness wasn’t bad enough… It was infuriating.

He heard footsteps outside. Voices – one was Shay, one was a child. They came closer.

“What makes you think so?” he heard Shay ask.

The child answered something quick he couldn’t hear.

“Your father has a rifle hanging on the wall in the taproom. Doesn’t mean he’s ever killed anyone, does it?” Shay asked.

“No, but you look like you use your sword. I saw it when you came in.” the child stated, carefree.

They stopped outside the door. “It’s true, I suppose.” Shay’s voice sounded, “It’d be strange for someone to wear a weapon they didn’t know how to use.”

“Yes.” the child answered, matter-of-factly. “I wear a stick sometimes when my father’s too drunk and hits mother. If I bash him, he don’t remember it the next day.”

There was silence. Haytham imagined the look on Shay’s face and would have grinned to himself if not for the shadow of coming pain hanging over his head. He’d have to get to his feet in a minute.

“…Good thinking.” Shay finally commented hesitantly. “Run along, now, Lizzie.”

Light footsteps retreated. There was silence for a few moments. Then came a knock at the door. “Sir?”

“Come in,” Haytham said wearily.

Shay did, putting a bundle of bandages and the familiar bag of salves on a small table next to Haytham. “You could have called me. I wouldn’t have minded,” he said.

“I know that.”

Shay bolted the door. “Feet first?” he asked.

“Get it over with,” Haytham stated.

It wasn’t even awkward. It should have been, he supposed. Inevitably, having someone, anyone, on their knees directly in front of you had the potential of being extremely personal, but every careful touch, every time the bandages wound around a foot, a fresh flower of pain unfurled its petals in Haytham’s mind, washing any thoughts of appropriateness away with a vengeance.

Shay finished with Haytham’s feet and looked up. A quick grin revealed his thoughts to have been down the same road, but he said nothing and just shrugged and continued with the bandages. When the work was finally finished he gave it a critical look, then, apparently satisfied, he held out a shirt questioningly.

Haytham closed his eyes and bit down a sigh. He felt _fragile_ , ready to collapse and furious at himself for his weakness.

“What is it?” Shay asked.

_Ridiculous._ He might as well jump as crawl to it. Haytham held out his good hand in the air in front of him. It was shaking. There wasn’t calm enough in his body yet for him to control it fully. “I need your help.” he finally said. “With this.” He indicated the damned beard. “I can’t hold a knife still enough to be certain of my survival.”

Shay reached into the bag he’d carried the salves in and produced a razor. “I was going to suggest that. But I wasn’t certain how to ask if you’d like me to hold a knife to your throat.”

“Decently diplomatic,” Haytham commented.

Shay gave him a small grin. “You know… Three and a half years ago I’d have pissed my breeches laughing if someone had told me I’d be shaving the Grand Master of the Colonial Rite with no ill intention.”

“Believe me,” Haytham assured him, “the irony isn’t lost on me.”

o-0-o

Haytham looked up from the fire he’d been staring emptily at. His mind was slowly gaining speed, and he was gradually allowing himself to believe in his freedom, even though the dark thoughts were a constant, lurking presence, a strong undercurrent in his mind that kept threatening to pull him under the moment he lost his grip on the waking world. There were footsteps approaching, Shay’s and a child’s, like yesterday.

“Don’t pester my commander, you hear?” he heard Shay say, voice stern.

“No, Sir. I don’t ever do pestering.” the child stated.

Shay gave a short laugh and the sound made a strange wave of emotion jump to the forefront in Haytham’s mind; like a cold dip into the dark undercurrent. Laughter existed… He’d forgotten. He turned his face away from the door and fought hard to get himself under control, pressing his good hand to the table-top as though he could disperse the too-revealing sentiment into the chipped wood.

There was a quick knock, the door opened, and Shay came in with their dinner on a tray. Behind him followed a small girl in a patched dress and apron, dark hair framing her face. She carried a lidded basket and put it down on the table. Her light-brown eyes were glued to Haytham, questions obviously boiling furiously just under the surface.

Her thin arms were still clamped around the basket on the table and she stopped any pretence of working.

“Lizzie–” Shay began warningly.

“My name is Lizzie, do you work for the King?” the child asked, oblivious, holding Haytham’s gaze. “Sir,” she added as an afterthought.

“Why do you ask?” Haytham demanded. It was always safer to answer a question with a question.

“Because mother says nobody gets beaten up as nasty as you was, without being in the King’s service.”

“Is that so?”

The girl nodded. “And father says if you’re Kingsmen, it explains why you’re rude. Because the robbers came and killed my brother last Christmas and there was no soldiers protecting us. So now we don’t pay taxes no more.”

Trying to see the connection, Haytham frowned and studied the child.

“Lizzie!” Shay put a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “What did I just tell you?” he demanded.

Lizzie looked up at him innocently.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind.” Haytham found himself saying, mildly surprised at his own reaction. So was Shay, judging from the look in his eyes, but there was a smile hiding in the corner of his mouth. If it sprang from the girl’s questions or Haytham’s reaction, he couldn’t judge.

Haytham looked at the girl. “I’m sorry to hear of your brother, Miss Lizzie,” he said.

“I don’t mind so much anymore. He’s in Heaven, I think. They nearly killed me too. I think I’d have gone to Heaven with him, don’t you? We don’t go to church since the new Boston road was built and nobody comes this way no more, so I’m not sure. So, are you?”

“Am I?” He was fairly certain the girl was confusing even to a rested mind.

“Working for the King? Because we are really poor, but mother’s afraid you will take everything we have.”

“I can solemnly assure you that we are neither robbers nor tax-collectors. You have nothing to fear.”

“I’m not afraid of you. And Mister Patrick’s nice to talk to.” Lizzie smiled up at Shay. “But if some robbers come while you are here, you’ll kill them. He told me. …So I hope they do.” the girl added, the determined statement followed by a small nod.

“I… am not completely certain I’m ready for combat just now.” Haytham indicated his bandaged hand in the sling.

“Oh... Mister Patrick can do it then, I guess. And you can shoot them. And tell me what to do. I can fight.”

“Can you, now?” Haytham asked, giving the new recruit a stern look. She didn’t flinch. “How old are you?”

“I’m almost ten, except for two years.”

Haytham nodded. “I see. In that case, I suppose it’s a valid plan if we are attacked by robbers.” he agreed seriously.

The girl nodded.

“Lizzie! Stupid girl! Where are you?” a woman’s voice yelled somewhere in the house.

The girl sighed. “I have to work now.”

“It was very interesting meeting you, Miss Lizzie.”

“You too, mister…“ Lizzie hesitated. “Commander, Sir.” She smiled at them both and left, closing the door behind her.

They both looked at the door for a moment, the sudden silence when her quick footfalls disappeared out of earshot almost deafening.

“Sorry about that, Sir.” Shay finally said, taking a seat opposite to Haytham and putting a bowl of stew in front of him. “She’s been my shadow almost, since we came here. A really noisy shadow.”

“It was nice to be reminded that…” Haytham searched for the word. Innocence? It was hardly innocent planning to murder robbers – and judging from the child’s unflinching certainty, he didn’t doubt she would defend her home if she had to. And probably suffer a horrendous death. He realised Shay was looking at him. “…reminded childish energy exists. It feels like I’ve been away for half an eternity.” he settled for, hearing the fatigue in his own voice surface. It was the first day he was able to sit up out of bed, not counting the bath yesterday, which had left him completely exhausted. The thirteen hours of uninterrupted sleep it had prompted had evidently not been sufficient.

“Energy aplenty. But nobody to talk to, I think. Must be lonely out here.” Shay said, removing the lid of the basket, fishing out a teapot and pouring a cup. He held it out.

Haytham stared at the cup, unable to reach for it. His mind was suddenly fighting frantically against memories he wanted nothing to do with. He closed his eyes. He should have anticipated his own reaction. But he hadn’t.

“The closest we can come to milk here is the cheese in the larder, I’m afraid,” Shay said. “Sir?”

Haytham opened his eyes and stared at the tea. “Apologies, I’m …more tired than I thought.”

Shay put the cup down in front of him.

_Tea is not to blame_ , Haytham reminded himself angrily. He would drink it, but he had to keep the nightmare on a very short leash. He looked up and found Shay’s concerned gaze.

“You don’t have to tell me anything, Sir. But if you do, I swear it’ll stay with me only,” he said quietly.

“Why am I that easy to read?” Haytham wanted the question to be angry. Anger could steer him clear and help him find his way through the madness; but his voice was just soft, with too many dark emotions lurking, ready to break free. “Why can you read me?” he asked again.

“I don’t know, Sir. Maybe I’m just lucky?”

Haytham stared at the damned cup for a long while; then he drew a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He didn’t know what words to put on the chaos in his mind. He didn’t want it spoken. Somehow, that made the pain and horror too real.

“They almost broke me,” Haytham said, surprised that the words found their way to his lips. “With a cup of tea.” He stopped himself, unwilling to meet Shay’s eyes, but now that the words were fleeing his mind, more followed. “It wasn’t the burns or cuts or beatings or… or death waiting for me. Just… tea.” He slowly forced his hand to reach for the cup. It was warm on his fingertips. He looked up and found Shay’s gaze. There was no judgement, no curiosity there. He simply accepted what he was given. If Haytham stopped talking, there’d be no disappointment.

Haytham sighed. “There were too many of them when they came for me. I was alone. It was a losing battle. I expected to die. Then one got in a lucky shot and hit me over the head, and I spent the first couple of days more or less senseless, and then they just… kept throwing pain my way. After they burned me,” his hand went to one of the burn-marks on his chest, “they laid me down on a mattress by the fire, gave me a blanket, a cup of tea. I almost told them what they wanted then.”

“ _Almost_ ,” Shay said. There was reassurance and confidence in his tone.

Haytham closed his eyes to avoid Shay’s gaze. “Tipping that cup over is the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“But you did it.” Shay just confirmed.

Haytham nodded. “I did it.” The memory stung a little less now, seemed simpler somehow. He shook his head, searching intensely, desperately, for a change of subject. “…How did you find me?”

“We divided the cities and roads between us,” Shay said smoothly. “I heard of a fellow found dead on the Boston road. Shot. When I found out it wasn’t you, I guessed it might have been whoever took you and followed from there. I met a hunter who told me of the cabin. So, luck, mostly.”

“I don’t know what to make of this. If they were an isolated phenomenon or if there are any more out there? Are we dealing with a new Brotherhood we have to battle as well? It’s …We have to leave here. I have to be back in the city so I can do something about this. I’m well enough to travel now. And this place is starting to feel like just another prison.”

“Leave, yes. But… A new Brotherhood?” Shay frowned, confused. “I thought they _were_ Brotherhood? So Davenport won’t miss them?”

“They said they steal from both sides. I believe that’s the truth. And not completely stupid either. As you just proved, we’re more likely to blame the Assassins out of habit than to look for a fresh itch to scratch.”

“Well… That’s rather good news, then. In spite of everything.”

“Why?” Haytham asked and then caught the look in the other man’s eyes. “…What are you not telling me?” he demanded.

Shay gave him a sheepish grin. “I’m neglecting to mention how close we are to Davenport’s nest?”

“What! That was an unusually foolish risk to take!” Haytham stated strongly.

“Sorry, Sir. I didn’t want to worry you, or move you until you were ready.”

“That’s not your decision! And it’s still an unnecessary danger to subject us both to.”

“It _was_ my decision, and the risk _was_ necessary.” Shay just said, unfazed. “I don’t think you realise how very close to death you were five days ago.”

Haytham stared at him. Something more was hiding under the insubordination. He narrowed his eyes; Shay gave a half-guilty cringe.

“What else?” Haytham demanded.

Shay drew a deep breath. “Well, since I seem to be carrying firewood to my funeral pyre anyway, I might as well give you the last two details…”

“Please do.”

“One of them got away.”

Haytham’s hand tightened on the teacup that had seemed so offensive a few moments ago. “I know,” he said after a moment of silence between them. “I would still have had my ring if not for him. The details are hazy, but I do remember he stole it. I remember he ran. What else?”

Shay nodded and then seemed to search for words. “Well, eh… since you were staggering after him in the snow and didn’t relent, I sort of also had to knock you out.”

“ _Sort of_ knock me out?”

“Alright, then. Completely knock you out. I realise there’s a punishment waiting for me, and whatever you decide, I’ll abide by. But I still stand by my choice, Sir. There weren’t a lot of other options and all of this was the least risky plan I could think of under the circumstances.”

Haytham drew a deep breath and looked at the stew in front of him. The annoyance he’d felt was quickly dissipating now, washed away by a sudden wave of exhaustion. “We leave tomorrow, then. That bastard has my ring, and I want him found,” he said tiredly. “How fast can we make it?”

“The snow’s blanketing everything and I’d honestly be more comfortable with the wagon, considering your feet in stirrups might not be the best plan right now.”

A choice of sharp replies presented themselves to Haytham, but then he shook his head and gave up. He’d save his anger for the one who deserved it. “I bow to your pyre-wood gathering skills, Master Cormac.” he simply said. “The wagon it is, then.”

o-0-o

Finally!

Finally, the journey and the fuss of returning to his home in Boston was behind him. The pain. The exhaustion. All of it was just memories now.

He was back in a safe-haven. He’d had a warm meal, tea that his mind was too exhausted to balk at, the servants had retreated, guards were posted, the bedroom was warm, the blankets warmer.

…And sleep eluded him.

He couldn’t even toss and turn effectively, but mostly just lie there, the dull throb of the familiar pain in his ribs and hand and feet seeming like a joke he’d heard one time too many.

The clock in the hall struck ten in the evening. Every now and then, a wagon rumbled by in the snowy street or a few late pedestrians walked past the house, voices carrying as a faint buzz of life. Normal life. It had never exactly been his, but the sound of normal life happening to others, had. That sound was now reclaimed. He was free and nobody would take that away from him again.

There were many resources available to him through the Temple and many through his private contacts. It was time to get back in the game and turn his thoughts to organising his vengeance. It was a necessity.

He didn’t know how else to lay the black memories to rest.


	4. Shay - Talk

Boston wasn’t exactly a beautiful town. …York City wasn’t either, come to think of it, but at least that had been home, so it claimed a rosier position in Shay’s mind. But nevertheless, the newly fallen snow muffled his footsteps, and the icicles hanging from the eaves of houses and the naked branches of trees softened everything up in a winter sparkle in the quiet night and covered a multitude of sins.

He hadn’t been able to appreciate it the first night after they returned here, however. He’d quickly had to call in whatever manpower he could get his grubby hands on to guard Haytham’s house, but hadn’t felt sure it was enough for complete security. He’d ended up taking a long watch himself that first night, standing in the shadows of the wall setting the house apart from the neighbours. When that night finally came to a close, with no untoward happenings, he was certain icebergs must have formed in the harbour.

The Grand Master was back in charge, if not back to full health. In the two weeks since their arrival, he’d obviously shown himself no mercy, working tirelessly through long days, sending out an army of messengers, going over the Order’s procedures, and receiving a steady stream of visitors, some more conspicuous than others. Even Thomas Hickey, who Haytham had never let into his home before, received an audience and left the house looking more smug and punchable than ever.

Gist and Johnson had been sent east on assignments, Lee had been sent to York City, twice, and Haytham had even somehow managed to conscript Scratcher, a mountain of a brute leading a gang of notorious criminals who the Order had fought on occasion. How the Grand Master had managed that, from the comfort of his desk, Shay couldn’t even begin to guess.

Shay rounded a corner and his Boston house, modest compared to Fort Arsenal, came into view down the quiet street. There were three people standing in front of the door. He quickly stopped himself and melted back in the shadows. He peered out. The three men were large, not military, well-armed. They were far enough away that they hadn’t spotted his approach. 

“Sod it!” he cursed silently under his breath. Whatever this was, they seemed to simply stand there; one marched a bit back and forth to try to keep warm. Shay looked again, concentrating. No snow had fallen in the last hours and there were fresh wheel-marks in the street. A carriage had evidently stopped sometime in the last two hours, then turned in the street in front of his house and gone back the way it came.

A man came into the street from the alley behind Shay’s house. The men spoke a bit in hushed tones, but from where he stood, he couldn’t pick out what was being said. Then the man turned to go back the way he came, and Shay heaved a sigh, relaxing when he recognised him. Fergus. The one he’d recommended Haytham put in charge of the people protecting him. So Haytham was here? Worried, the stray desire to test their vigilance that flashed across his mind evaporated, and he quickly set off once more.

Hands went calmly to weapons until they recognised him and relaxed their guard.

“Trouble?” he demanded when he was close enough to speak without waking the whole street.

“Don’t know, Sir.” one of the men answered.

“But he’s here?” Shay asked.

“Yes, Mister Kenway is here,” Fergus confirmed, rounding the corner. “He sent the servant off when he arrived an hour ago. Maybe best not to keep him waiting, Mister Cormac.”

“His mood’s that bad?” Shay asked.

“Somewhat testy, Sir.” Fergus just commented.

Shay quietly took a deep breath, then tried the door handle. The door was unlocked. He closed it behind him and bolted it. The ground floor was deserted but blissfully warmed by a smouldering fire in the kitchen hearth in the next room. A lit lamp stood on the dining table and he took it, lighting his way to check that the backdoor to the small garden was locked and then ascended the stairs to the first floor.

“I’d come down to meet you, but for some reason, stairs are a little more unpleasant to walk on in my current condition, than floors are.” Haytham’s voice sounded. Shay smiled to himself and entered the modest parlour upstairs. Haytham was seated in a sofa in front of the fireplace, candles illuminating the room. A table had been dragged close and several papers, ink and quills lay there.

“I do apologise for the intrusion, Master Cormac. Your servant let me in.” Haytham rose from the sofa, supporting himself on an elegant walking cane.

“No trouble, Sir. But I would have come to you immediately. You need only send for me.”

“I know,” Haytham said quietly. “But I’ve hardly seen anything but my office and my bedroom since we returned and when I realised that, I was close to madness.”

Shay tried to wipe the smile off his face but didn’t quite succeed. “The word was ‘testy’, Sir.” He set the lamp down on his desk, removed his gloves and scarf, unbuckled his weapon-belt and shrugged off his coat.

“Yes, well. Forced immobility conveys a special kind of frustration, as I’m sure you know. Fortunately, these things are fashionable, or so I’m told.” Haytham added dryly, indicating the walking cane. “At least I’ve stopped blaming tea for my woes. Our good relationship has been re-established.”

“And rum, Sir? How’s the situation on that front?” Shay fished a clay bottle out of a drawer. He held it out questioningly.

“My relationship with rum remains blissfully free of conflict. Thank you kindly for enquiring.” Haytham took the cup Shay offered him and they both took a seat.

“So, what do you need, Sir?”

Haytham took a drink, then sighed. “I require your assistance.”

“My assistance?”

“Permission, rather.” He set the cup aside.

“What could I possibly permit you to do, Sir? Or be in a position to stop you from doing?” Shay asked, bemused.

“To use your name to hopefully smoke the man who stole my ring, out. Preferably a few Assassins with him as an encore. I’m hoping I can have Davenport’s lapdogs do some of the dirty work, and just step in before the finale and claim the prize. Perhaps in the process have some intelligence on their network as well.”

“How can I help?”

“Well, I imagine Davenport might be more willing to risk a few lives if it means getting his hands on you. But I’m honestly not certain he’ll react like that. He’s famously phlegmatic on so many counts, it’s difficult to navigate the man’s intentions. I’m not even sure _he_ knows what he’s fighting for.” Haytham shook his head, caught somewhere between tiredness and annoyance. “Also,” he produced a letter sealed with the Temple cross from the pile of papers on the table. “I’ve written him a letter as part of a different strategy, in case the others fall through, since my hand in the main plan will be invisible, if all goes well, and might not motivate him sufficiently.”

“Written him a letter? Written Davenport a letter?” Shay simply echoed, staring at the Grand Master emptily for a few seconds.

“Ideally, I’d have it delivered directly to his hideout with a few complimentary queen-cakes, but I’m not in the mood for sending a messenger to his death.”

Shay couldn’t stop the sudden laughter and put his cup down. “You’d send him a nice basket of baked goods?”

“I don’t imagine he’d sample it, but we do for once have a common enemy, so politeness would be satisfying.” Haytham almost smiled. “Although I’d fully encourage the people I unwillingly spent time with to do to Davenport what they did to me, I still have to find them. And we might both have an interest in culling them before they get out of hand.”

Shay was still grinning. “He’ll think it’s a ruse.”

“Of course. He’ll still investigate. But that scheme aside for the moment,” Haytham continued, “I need to plant your name to entice the players to the game board.”

“Use my name to your heart’s content, Sir. Just tell me what I need to do, and I will.”

“Thank you. I’ll set everything in motion then.” Haytham suddenly gave a laugh. “…Or rather, you will,” he said, producing another, much heftier, letter from the pile, handing it to Shay. “Give this to Fergus outside, please. He’ll see to delivering it to the proper authorities.”

“As you say, Sir.” Shay took the letter and did as requested. When he came back, the short meeting with the outside cold had left a nasty kiss of ice in his flesh and he gratefully took the fresh drink Haytham held out.

“What happens now, Sir?” he asked, stretching his feet towards the fire.

“Before the moon sets, three civilians I strongly suspect to be sympathetic to the Assassins’ cause will have been arrested and charged with a smattering of felonies.” Haytham just commented. “It’ll likely be a few days before I see any results on this particular stratagem, so you’re not in a hurry.”

“And when I am? What happens then?”

“A set of false accounting books and witnesses will point to them having reported directly to a man fitting the description of the Questioner. …The man who holds my ring.” Haytham explained when Shay raised an eyebrow uncertainly. “For Assassin benefits, it’ll also very discreetly lead to you as this fictitious cabal’s primary source. If all goes well, losing three informers in the Assassin information network should prompt a response, and the possibility of injuring you should further ignite the powder keg. Then I’m hoping the description of the Questioner they’ll be furnished with, will make a miracle happen.”

“How will we follow the Assassins? Even though they pick up on this, they might still be invisible.”

“True, but some of the clues in this little treasure hunt will take them to people that are on our side before they hopefully figure things out I haven’t. So we’ll know when somebody is taking care of it and keep eyes on them.”

“So these three that are going to be arrested…” Shay said.

“I’ve arranged for a speedy trial with three ropes at the end, naturally. I need the three of them off the game board before the Assassins can get to their assets.”

Shay frowned a bit, looking into his cup. “You said you ‘strongly suspect’ they’re in the Assassins’ network. But you’re not sure?”

“And yet I plot their demise.” Haytham finished Shay’s thoughts aloud.

“What if you’re wrong, Sir?”

“Then I’m very sorry,” Haytham commented unemotionally.

Shay nodded, twirling the dregs left in the cup. “Pardon, Sir. But you’re a cold shite when you need to be. And no–“ he said before Haytham could interject. “I’ve no problem with that.”

“I prefer ‘practical’.” Haytham said resignedly.

“If it works, it works.” Shay emptied the cup.

“…Yes.” Haytham turned a steady gaze at Shay who shifted on the sofa to face him.

“Sir,” Shay said. “This is why I’m hunting people down once they surface; not coming up with the plans to make them do that in the first place. I trust your judgement.”

“Thank you. And I do appreciate the ethical reminder.”

“Didn’t mean it like that. It’s not for me to decide, Sir. I know that.” Shay dismissed.

“I admit it’s not my most elegant move. And there’s absolutely no guarantee bringing the damned Assassins into it will do any good.” Haytham said. “But in the time since we returned, I’ve pulled every sting in every net I can think of. I’ve had harbours and roads on lockdown, people searched or detained on absurd charges, sent word to every European Rite, contacted the native tribes, bribed the governors of Massachusetts and York City, gained access to the army, even had dealings with the bloody French. The man’s a ghost! I need something more tangible to work with and a few extra eyes on the problem wouldn’t hurt. Hiding under white hoods or not.”

“Don’t forget ‘made deals with an infamous gang’.”

“Yes, well… That too.” Haytham agreed, a badly hidden note of exhaustion in his voice.

“With me as bait, at least the Assassins will react, more likely than not. I can’t imagine I’m anything but popular with them.” Shay said.

“…I’m glad you used the term ‘bait’, so I didn’t have to,” Haytham commented, a smile lurking in the corner of his mouth.

Shay gave a laugh. “Three and a half years ago you said you’d shoot me like a lame horse if I stepped out of line, Sir. So I can hardly be offended at just being bait.”

“What? I never said that.” Haytham stated, giving a scoffing laugh, his tired distance taking a break.

“When it’s basically the first thing a person tells you, believe me, you remember,” Shay stated.

“Fine… In that case, I’m gratified your _baitness_ won’t be of the reluctant kind.”

“So, when they do bite, what happens?”

“I think I’ll reserve judgement on that, depending on their approach. I’ll keep you informed of any progress and then we’ll have to plan as we go along.”

Shay just nodded. “It’s well and good, Sir.”

They found each other’s gaze and silence fell between them. Outside, a gust of wind angrily shook the closed shutters, creeping down the chimney to make the flames dance more fiercely.

“Well… I intruded on you with no invitation; I’ll leave you in peace now.” Haytham finally said and reached for the papers on the table.

“You don’t have to go back to the madness yet, unless you want to, Sir,” Shay said calmly. “Stay for another drink at least?”

Haytham’s hand came to rest on the papers and he treated Shay to a long stare, equal parts puzzlement and bemused vigilance.

Shay couldn’t keep a sudden laugh down, the absurdity of both his own offer and Haytham’s reaction asserting itself to his mind. He held up his hands in surrender.

“You know, I think I _could_ use another drink. …Are you going to start hauling some more wood for that funeral pyre of yours?” Haytham asked, an expression of curiosity, which Shay had never seen before, lurking in his features.

“No.” Shay shrugged and poured a fresh drink for both of them. “I suppose it’s warm enough in here.”

“Then what?” Haytham took the cup he was offered.

“Perhaps a _bit_ of pyre-wood…” Shay shook his head at himself. “When I left the Assassins, both parties were calling me a traitor, Sir. I’m not complaining about that, I understand. I understood.”

“Yes?” the Grand Master asked, not bothering to hide his mystification.

“But the fact is I was lost. Utterly. I had no one. And I was desperate for… guidance. Perspective. Purpose. I can’t tell you how badly I wished I had just died in Lisbon.”

Haytham frowned. “I do remember you seemed more than a little keen on shaking the Grim Reaper’s hand… But what’s this about?”

“Sir, you just admitted to a plan being less than elegant and that it might be pointless to bring the Assassins into this, even though that’s your course of action. You even used the word ‘miracle’. If it was anyone else, I wouldn’t wonder. But not with you. You’re doing all of this alone, and I understand. But you don’t have to.”

Haytham set the cup aside and stared a Shay. “And what, in your opinion, should I do to get the plan back on track, then?” he asked sharply.

“You’re fit to explode with frustration. You’ve been working constantly since we got back. Talk to someone?”

“We’re having a conversation.”

Shay shrugged. “Technically, Sir, _I’m_ talking and _you’re_ planning my untimely demise. Not what I’m suggesting.”

Haytham looked away, drew a deep breath, and Shay watched as emotions – too many, too strong to be fully kept under his customary control – swiftly flitted across his features.

It was somehow too unusual and private to look at, so he turned his attention to his drink instead.

Finally, Haytham sighed softly. “Talk to someone?” he just asked, voice and face neutral again, unreadable. “The last time someone offered that it was bloody Reginald Birch and my mother had just died. He was obviously praying I’d say no.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to–” Shay stopped himself, waving the sentence off. “Look… It doesn’t have to be me, Sir. I’m not trying to worm my way into your private confidence. Maybe it won’t work for you. Perhaps you could just take a bit of time to prove to yourself that you’re alive. I don’t know if you have a woman, but nothing proves you’re alive like a solid horizontal refreshment.”

“Good grief, man, you’re a poet, too?” Haytham snapped sharply, though it looked as though the anger was fighting a laugh. “First you knock me out and stick me in a hellhole of a tavern in Davenport’s back yard, then you want me to tell someone of my personal life and run out to pay for a quick bout of syphilis?”

Shay held out his hands. “Sorry, Sir,” he said. “But the fact is I worry about you. Because, even though you might not want to acknowledge this, you _are_ the Order. Master Lee did everything he could to coordinate our efforts and lead us in your absence, but _your_ will, _your_ patience or lack thereof, is what guides us. He’d have found his own pace eventually, but you cast a very long shadow. If you don’t function, neither does the Order.”

Haytham visibly bit down a sharp reply and turned his head to stare at the fire for a while.

“Well played.” he finally said. “Now I can either run off like a coward who doesn’t give a damn about the Order or do as you command.” He held up his hand to stop Shay’s protest. “If I talked to you… If I considered you a friend, someone more than a soldier, what if it influenced my decisions? You can send a soldier to his death, but not a friend; not in good conscience.”

“Sir…” Shay began, confused, searching for the right words. “…I’m not saying the responsibility of the _Morrigan_ can even begin to compare to the burden of managing the entire Colonial Rite, but I think you’re mistaken. Gist is my first mate, but he’s also my friend. And I know, without any doubt, that should he die under my command, he’d understand. You underestimate me, and possibly a lot of other people, if you think I wouldn’t expect you to put the Order first – lives be damned, my own included. I’ll end up dead sooner or later, and dying for the Order at least makes sense.”

Haytham leaned back, staring blankly into the fire for a long while. “Decent point.” he finally said and turned to look at Shay, sharp, evaluating. “You’ve already seen me at my worst. All of this is just dealing with it. You know what really bothers me? About all this. What really _infuriates_ me?”

Shay just shook his head; privately, strangely, pleased at seeing the hint of anger surface. The Grand Master _should_ be angry, terrified at what had been done to him, ecstatic at being alive. Not calmly working his way to his vengeance in solitude.

“One thing is that being made weak is humiliating, but that’s a personal matter. It is what it is. I’m alive. I live with it.” Haytham said. “But, strange as it sounds, the worst part is that they weren’t even Brotherhood. If they were, it would have been understandable, expected even. It would be extremely stupid of them, yes, but it would fit. But those people are simply thugs. Pointless little thieves. How did they ever grow to such prominence that they were able to do _this_? I have to question my own vigilance since they’ve obviously blossomed right under my nose. And while I could argue that Davenport probably hasn’t seen them coming either, that hardly seems a consolation.”

“It would have helped if it was Davenport’s doing?” Shay asked.

“Of course.” Haytham looked up, a tiny hint of a smile hiding on his lips. “We know where his nest is, and absurdly, he hasn’t bothered moving since your departure. If he had me murdered without securing the entire rest of the Order, I’m guessing Master Lee’s first action would be to make him watch as his damned homestead burned to the ground and all his allies died horrendously.”

“That _was_ on the table, actually,” Shay confirmed.

“Well, I…” Haytham sighed. “I’ve been working on the assumption that they’re motivated, not by purpose, but by greed. They wanted intelligence on sites and artefacts pertaining to Those Who Came Before, and I got the impression that the ultimate goal was to use this to generate petty profit, either by sales or by the powers of the artefacts themselves. And they didn’t even know who–” Haytham stopped himself, staring thunderstruck at Shay before quickly turning his gaze away.

“Sir?”

“Perhaps you _were_ right.” He took a drink. “This might be helpful after all.”

“I’ll just bask in you admitting you were wrong and ignore your surprise, Sir,” Shay commented, smirking.

“I admitted you were _right,_ not that I was wrong,” Haytham stated, almost smiling. “Honestly… I realise you didn’t have that long time to learn from Colonel Monro, and that this…” he gestured vaguely in Shay’s direction, “is all your own, but he was the only one who ever _told_ me when he thought I was doing something daft.”

“He never spoke of you except with the greatest respect.”

“I know. And it was always reciprocated. …And your bloody annoying insolence aside, I appreciate what you’re doing.”

Shay nodded in thanks, quietly pleased. “So what was it? You figured something out, didn’t you?”

“I’m not sure yet. I’m not sure what it means.” He set the cup aside and rubbed his eyes, suddenly looking exhausted. “I’ve not thought– No.” the Grand Master corrected himself sharply, almost as if disgusted with himself. “In all honesty, I’ve _allowed_ myself to avoid thinking on the details of what happened.” There was a lost expression in his eyes when he looked up. “There’s this… this reaction, I never knew it existed, where…” Haytham faltered, obviously struggling to put words to his feelings.

He looked at Shay who just held his gaze, careful not to demand anything or seem insistent. If the Grand Master would talk, he would listen.

Haytham looked down, drew a deep breath and seemed to give up. “When I was there, in the cabin,” he finally said, “every time I woke up, for just a fraction of a second, I didn’t know I was a prisoner. Every time I woke up, my mind insisted I was free. And then, of course, the pain and the cold and the knowledge came rushing in. But every single time I woke up, I _became_ a prisoner all over again.” He stopped, looking shocked at his own words. “But the damnedest thing is, now that I’m free, I wake up a prisoner. When I open my eyes in the morning, I do so with the instinct to fight to free myself.”

“It will fade. It will fade soon.” Shay said.

“How do _you_ know?” It was obviously meant to be a sharp demand, but there was too much pain in the simple question for it to sting.

“Because I woke up an Assassin every morning for a long time; and lost the friends who were as close as family, my purpose, everything I believed in – again and again,” Shay answered quietly.

Haytham half sighed, half cringed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think about that. I never thought about that.”

“You gave me the means to redeem myself. Or try to, at least. Don’t apologise. I’m where I can do the most good. And trust me, Sir. It will fade.”

Haytham nodded. “I’ve not been back to those days in my mind.” he finally said. “I should have. I should have gone through all of it.”

“You’re the only person I know who would blame himself for not wanting to relive ten days of torture,” Shay said, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Of course I blame myself,” Haytham said wearily. “It’s unprofessional. Cowardly.”

“You measure yourself against some harsh standards, Sir.”

“And I fail to live up to them, it seems. For a while, anyway.” He shook his head dismissively. “…To get this back on track, though. They didn’t know who I was. They thought I was Charles.”

“Lee? They thought you were Charles Lee?” The absurdity of that mistake almost seemed funny. “But… If I was going to torture someone for information on the Order, I’d pick you, not Master Lee.”

“That’s very courteous of you,” Haytham commented, almost smiling.

“You know what I mean.”

“…But I wasn’t supposed to be in Boston. It was random chance I was there a week earlier than expected. I’ll give this some thought.” Haytham finished, dismissing the subject with finality.

Shay just nodded. He’d already gotten more response out of the Grand Master than he’d ever expected. It was a small marvel he’d managed to navigate this conversation without any explosions and he wasn’t about to push his luck further.

“And now, of course, you reciprocate with information of your own,” Haytham stated categorically. He picked the bottle up and refilled their cups. “I believe that’s how conversations between friends function?”

“I… of course reciprocate. What do you want to know, Sir?”

Haytham regarded him for a while, as though weighing his odds. “There are some questions that have been on my mind.” He held Shay’s gaze for a while. “…About things purely private and strictly speaking none of my business,” he added.

“I have never tried to keep anything from you, Sir.”

“I know. I’m not blaming you. Merely adding a suitable preface.”

Shay gave a bemused smile. “So… What do you need?”

“I realised during my imprisonment how little I know. Of you. Of people that I’m close to. How many questions I never asked. I take your loyalty for granted by now, and I know the essentials. I can turn my back on you without fear. I trust you. I know what’s in our archives from your time as an Assassin. But I hardly know anything about you.”

“Really, Sir?” Shay asked, puzzled. “I thought– Well…” he shook his head. “I thought you always knew what you needed to know.”

“My _need_ to know has expanded. You’re of Irish descent, but I know nothing of your parents. You were an Assassin, but I don’t know how or why that happened. I’ve seen the book of Socratic dialogues that was in your pocket last summer, just before the siege of Louisbourg, but I don’t know if you read it, if you liked it, why you would pick that particular book up. I know you have a strong sense of right and wrong, but I don’t know who helped kindle that, and I assume it wasn’t Davenport. I know there’s a cat at Fort Arsenal that harasses the caretaker when you aren’t there to feed it, but I don’t know if you did that to please the cat or annoy the caretaker.”

Shay didn’t bother keeping the grin off his face.

Haytham smiled. “In short, I know very little. I’d like that to change.”

“You accused me of poetry earlier tonight, Sir. What if you end up knowing more than you want to?”

“Don’t worry.” Haytham reached for his cup. “I’m perfectly willing to risk wanting to strangle you.”


	5. Haytham - Memory

He didn’t dream often, and when he did, he usually just shrugged it off. This one was different, though, wrapping its tendrils around him almost as soon as he closed his eyes, without giving him time to indulge in the now familiar dread of waking up a prisoner. It was a message sent from his sleeping mind to his waking one, delivered in as booming a voice as his dreaming self could muster: The huge black dog in his dream was standing there, a grisly, bleeding hole in its forehead; staring directly at him, alert but not hostile.

Not hostile!

He jerked awake from the dreamscape that had visited him. Angela, the Lady Pencutt, stirred in his embrace, turning, coming to, and Haytham quickly pulled her closer. “Nothing. Just a dream. Go back to sleep.” he said softly and felt her relax again.

“Are you alright?” she asked sleepily.

“I’m fine.” He kissed her forehead softly and, with a touch of something close to desperation, caressed her delicate shoulder, hoping it would prevent her from feeling the urgency that flooded his mind.

“Just don’t leave…” she mumbled sweetly.

“I won’t,” he whispered. Sleep engulfed Angela again, her hand on Haytham’s chest relaxing. He gave a silent sigh of relief. He needed time to think uninterrupted, pleasant though the company was.

The dog was the key. That night, before they had come for him, Charles had brought one of his dogs with him, leaving the large, black beast faithfully waiting outside the tavern where they had met. Haytham had been the first to leave.

The fingers of his good hand softly caressed Angela’s slender back as he went through the events in his mind; thankful he was alone with his thoughts, but not alone in bed. Having another person’s gentle, regular breath as the background to the dark recollection made revisiting it easier.

He’d left the tavern that night. Taken the shortest route towards his home, which took him through some rather shady areas on the first leg of the journey. Then Charles’ dog had come running after him, for reasons he couldn’t fathom. He’d tried sending it back to the tavern, but when the black beast simply stared at him with a toothy grin, he’d given up and let the dog tag along. He would send word to Charles the next day that it was safe and sound; it was too cold a night to trudge back to the tavern for the sake of a wilful mutt.

And then they’d found him.

In a narrow alley, the dog suddenly stood to attention, ears swivelling, tail wagging. But no hint of aggression. Puzzled, Haytham had stopped, listened, his hand going to his weapon. And then the shot came, unnaturally loud in the quiet, cold night. The dog stood for a second, tongue hanging from its sharp-toothed maw, then it keeled over, dead, and Haytham was attacked. They hadn’t left him room to reach higher ground. In the low visibility in the alley, he’d mostly fought on instinct, but he knew there were too many for it to be likely he’d leave alive.

…But the dog. How the burning Hell had he been so blind! Why had he allowed himself to avoid remembering the attack for so long, no matter how painful it was!

Cursing himself for a coward, he forced his thoughts to dwell on all the details of the attack, of the days in the cabin, searching his memory for something more to go by. In the end, nothing further presented itself. But it was enough. The dog must have known at least one of the assailants well enough to consider the situation interesting, but not threatening.

Haytham briefly tried to imagine that Charles could be behind it but quickly dismissed the thought. When he’d met with him after returning to Boston, the man’s relief was simply too obvious, too ready, for Haytham to believe it false. Charles was ambitious, yes, certainly, but not to a point of falsehood. Besides, if Charles had been behind the attack, Haytham felt certain he wouldn’t have been alive to tell about it and most certainly not hauled off to a different location to be tortured for information Charles already knew.

…But Charles’ staff, though. That was another matter entirely. Hiring servants when your life was full of secrets was always a delicate matter. People specifically trained to live close to you but not reveal whatever they gleaned of your actions… Yes, it had to be someone who knew the dog, but not its master. They had thought they’d captured _Charles_. A natural assumption when they saw the dog; provided they didn’t know what Charles looked like.

Charles’ houndsmaster was naturally the prime suspect as someone who’d let information slip, perhaps without knowing it. The trail would have to begin with someone the houndsmaster knew; or rather, someone the dog knew. Someone who didn’t have free roam of Charles’ estate, didn’t know him personally and hadn’t seen him since his recent return from the army.

This would take time to unravel, but it narrowed the list of possible suspects considerably. He turned his possible approaches over in his mind, dismissing having Shay, and especially Charles, in on it. Charles’ indignation on Haytham’s behalf bordered on rage, and if he learned that someone in his own household might be suspect, Haytham wasn’t sure there’d be much left to question.

If a new Brotherhood was strong enough to watch the Temple’s moves, his old plans would serve as a smokescreen. He’d have to follow this alone.

As a map of possibilities, actions, and counteractions was painting itself in his mind, he found his caresses growing more insistent and gently nudged Angela onto her back. He enjoyed the feeling of her smooth, silky breasts against his lips and sent Shay a kind thought. Without his annoyingly impudent prodding, Haytham would never have allowed himself a luxurious distraction at a time like this.

But, evidently, horizontal refreshments worked.


	6. Shay - Hunter

From Mrs. Jackson – secretly on the Temple’s payroll – the two Assassins had been sent to Jareth Palmer, the smith. They managed to attract attention when Jareth defended himself violently but escaped the garrison soldiers conveniently rushing to the citizen’s aid.

They’d fortunately also managed to steal the book he was ‘defending’.

From there, via a York City trader, they went to the elderly caretakers of Fort Arsenal – Shay was slightly annoyed they’d made that connection instead of the intended one – and then back to Boston to steal the records from the magistrate’s office. Then they’d suddenly veered off course and split the party, making tracking so much more difficult.

They’d been by the clues leading to Hickey’s people – or was it Lee’s? – last week and had dragged Shay and Lee both through the various Bostonian gutters, including a close encounter with Scratcher’s gang, for most of the week after.

Shay had long since given up trying to follow the reasoning behind it, but he readily accepted it when the Assassins veered off the predicted path in their search for the one the Grand Master termed the Questioner. Haytham replied to Shay’s reports, via a host of messengers, in sharp, precise commands. Shay could almost hear him snap orders.

Finally, after close to three weeks of following the Assassins around and hoping for the best, the Grand Master sent word that he would be away for several days. There was nothing further, no explanation; not that Shay felt entitled to one.

It was four more days of careful Assassin-stalking before he received an order again. It was simply a date three days hence, a York City address near the northern docks, and a few lines in Haytham’s handwriting that said: _Twelve noon; bring a helper and a closed wagon. And for the love of God, look like you belong!_

Privately gratified to be able to leave the Assassins behind, Shay burned the note and set off for York City.

o-0-o

The wagon rumbled through the pools of muddy snow. As hard as the winter frost had been, its efforts had been thwarted early this year. It was by no means spring, but icicles were dripping and two-months-old snowdrifts were falling off the roofs. In a few days, if this weather kept, the city would be back to its customary stench, Shay thought. He turned down the correct street, going slowly in the hopes of spotting the right house. He found it and pulled the reins.

“What now, Sir?” Fergus, next to him on the driver’s seat, asked.

Shay shrugged and looked around the street. It was mostly an area of living quarters. There were few shops, but a larger thoroughfare intersecting the street up ahead created some traffic; both wagons, riders and pedestrians. Nobody looked twice at them, though. The few weapons they’d brought were carefully hidden under their unspectacular coats and the wagon was of a quality that fitted the area: practical, unassuming, slightly rundown.

“Stay here. I’ll take a look around.” Shay jumped off the wagon and approached the house. It looked to be simple tenements.

A pair of peeling shutters at ground floor level opened close to where Shay stood. Haytham leaned on the windowsill, calm, like a man just looking outside his home for some fresh air. It took Shay a moment to recognise him, though. It wasn’t so much his unwashed hair hanging loose or the common worker’s clothes he wore, or the stubble on his chin, but the way he carried himself. Shay had never seen the Grand Master lean languidly on a windowsill.

“Good timing,” Haytham commented in greeting. Shay approached, gaze sweeping into the modest apartment behind the Grand Master. Absolutely nothing seemed amiss. 

“I hope you are in the market for giving someone a ride.” Haytham kicked something lying out of sight at his feet and a low, muffled exclamation was heard.

Shay gestured for Fergus to bring the wagon closer but didn’t take his eyes off the Grand Master. “…You did it?” he asked tentatively.

“Oh yes,” Haytham said, unsmiling, his gaze turning icy. “And now my entertainment begins.”

The wagon rumbled up behind Shay.

“Mister Fergus. Excellent choice.” The cold in his eyes vanished as quickly as it had come when Haytham greeted the man on the driver’s seat, but Shay couldn’t help feel grateful he was in the Gran Master’s good graces. The opposite was clearly, unsurprisingly, not a good place to be, he thought, as he helped Haytham heft the prisoner, wrapped tightly in a shabby carpet, into the wagon.

“Are you familiar with North-house? Can you find your way there?” Haytham enquired.

“Yes, Sir. I know it.”

“Master Lee will meet you there.”

Shay gave a nod. He was about to turn when Haytham’s hand locked around his arm. “Keep him safe!” the Grand Master said pointedly in a low tone of voice. “From everyone. I do not want to see _a single_ scratch on him that I didn’t put there!”

“As you say, Sir. You have my word.” Shay said earnestly.

“Splendid.” Haytham gave the smile that Shay had privately categorised as ‘evil glee’ when they first met. Whatever would follow, it would not be pretty.

“I’ll be there tonight.” Haytham nodded in farewell and disappeared back into the tenement building.

Shay told Fergus which route would be the quickest. Then he jumped into the wagon, closed the door, and they set off.

_How the Hell did Haytham manage this?_ he wondered as he felt the wagon rumble through the streets, resting his feet on the writhing carpet-bundle.

Even though he remembered clearly how broken the Grand Master had been, he had seen it, tended to his horrible injuries, experienced first-hand his frustration at his lack of mobility, even seen the dark dread of evil memories that he struggled to control, it still somehow seemed impossible that Haytham could be weak. As though all he had been through was just a strange, disjointed nightmare. Unpleasant, but dismissible on waking. Obviously, Haytham had conducted his own investigation. Perhaps to free himself of the memory of the damage he suffered; to prove his return to strength? Maybe Lee had known of it?

The prisoner under his feet bucked, trying to free himself, and Shay hauled the carpet into a sitting position so he wouldn’t risk injuring him.

“Sorry, mate,” he mumbled to the carpet-hidden figure. “You probably should have stayed in the cabin that night. I’m sure a quick stab from me would have been preferable.”


	7. Haytham - Retribution

He took his time. Rushing through would be foolish, even though he felt a raving urgency in his entire being. But no. He had, after all, more than _two decades_ of experience in not being capable of avenging his father. So although this was every bit as personal, he could wait a few more hours.

Haytham searched the Questioner’s apartment thoroughly. Nothing of interest showed itself. Then he went home to his York City house, washed, shaved, changed, had a meal; carefully kept the wild, vengeful elation coursing through his mind under control.

Flexing his hand, newly emerged from the cocoon of the splint after close to two months, he considered his weapons carefully. Sipped a brandy. Picked an unobtrusive knife, set apart only by the shortness of the blade. He calmly set to sharpening it, drinking the rest of the brandy as he worked.

Shay would keep the Questioner safe. Haytham smiled to himself. It was almost time.

o-0-o

“Well, there you are...” Haytham took a seat in front of the Questioner. The man was tied firmly to a chair in the small kitchen of the isolated safe-house. Charles and Shay were in the parlour beyond the door, a handful of the Temple’s soldiers were outside the building and a small army of scouts were placed strategically in the area to warn of anyone approaching. It was private. Secure.

“You were a difficult man to find,” Haytham commented. “Rather impressive, really. You’ll be amused to know I found you because of a dead dog.”

“Shut up and just get it over with, Charlie!” the man sneered. There was knowledge in his eyes, fear of the retribution to come hidden under the scornful anger.

Haytham smiled. “’Get it over with’? Granted, I don’t have another ten – twelve? – days to spend on you, but let’s not rush things. I have a few questions first; I thought I’d try a _civilised_ approach.”

The Questioner spat at Haytham’s feet. “How’s the hand, Charlie?” he just demanded.

“Hmm…” Haytham nodded. “Valid strategy on your part. I opted for silence when I was at your mercy. You’re hoping for a swift death at the hand of an enraged jailer.” He rose to his feet, flexing the newly healed fingers, the hand still sore and weak. He looked at the red mess of scar tissue. “It could be better. It could have not been broken, for one. But it’s still fine, considering the circumstances. Thank you for enquiring.” He walked to the hearth and stoked the fire; looked over his shoulder. When their positions had been reversed, a poker had been used to sear Haytham’s flesh. In the Questioner’s eyes, he saw a kind of angry toughness in preparation for the agony.

“You know, perhaps I should thank you,” Haytham commented, his attention back at the fire. “My lover is fascinated by my new scars. It’s not all bad.”

“Really, which one of the bastards who tied me up are you fucking?” came the reply.

Haytham laughed. “True, undiluted wit? Apparently being the one in the chair does wonders for your conversational skills.” He set the poker aside and put the kettle on the fire-hook before taking his seat again. A slight narrowing of the Questioner’s eyes, a quick, uncertain flicker, brought a smile to Haytham’s lips. “Oh, you didn’t think I’d have so little imagination that I’d just replicate your failed attempt at information-extraction?”

“What do you _want!_ I’m not going to tell you anything.” the Questioner snapped.

Haytham leaned back in the chair comfortably. “I want to meet the rest of your group. And I want the ring you stole from me. That’s all. …Quite humble demands, really, considering what a nuisance you’ve been.”

“Go to Hell, Charlie Templar.” was all the answer he got.

Haytham gave a small sigh. “About that… Did you happen to catch a glimpse of the fellow outside?” he nodded towards the door. “The one with the moustache? Probably looking like he’d love to wring your neck.”

The prisoner’s eyes narrowed and Haytham could practically see his thoughts grind away, trying to discern the threat in the question.

“That gentleman was Charles Lee,” he explained. “So I’d thank you to stop calling me Charlie.”

The prisoner just stared at him through narrowed eyes.

“At any rate, just give me the information; I will verify it and I will give you a clean, fast death. This is a very generous offer on my part and I make it solely because you granted my last requests back at the cabin.” Haytham said.

“You’re not Charles Lee?”

Haytham just gave a slight shake of his head. “I’m Haytham Kenway,” he said, smiling at the way the prisoner’s eyes widened for a second before he quickly looked away. “You spent a day asking about the Grand Master’s plans and movements. I think I laughed at you, then... Didn’t I? I must confess it’s all a bit blurred.” He waved a hand to dismiss the conversation. “To business, though! Where is your group and where is my ring?”

“You’re going to torture me anyway, so why would I tell you _anything_. Just take your cowardly little vengeance, you wretched bodger. Or maybe you’re too scared to actually get your hands dirty. You’re probably going to end up crying to the real Charles Lee to help you because you’re too squeamish. Just because you can take a beating doesn’t mean you can dish one out.”

Haytham felt a grin spread on his face as he listened to the insults flying freely. He shot to his feet and went to stand behind the bound man, putting an arm around his neck and pulling his head back slowly.

“What! You’re going to strangle me like a complete amateur?” the Questioner laughed. “That’s pathetic.”

Haytham leaned down. “I really must thank you for your rather dim-witted outburst. I _intensely_ want to see you suffer and it would have been quite disappointing if you had been reasonable,” he explained, drawing the small, narrow-bladed knife.

“I’m supposed to be impressed? It’s a bit short, isn’t it! Was that all the weapon you could muster?” the Questioner mocked.

Haytham locked the man’s head tighter in the crook of his elbow, forcing the now thrashing body to stretch tightly against the ropes. The prisoner struggled as the hand holding the knife felt the ribs, the point just below them on the left side. Too long a blade and he’d bleed out too quickly. The weapon found its mark unceremoniously and tore through skin, flesh, muscle, reaching far enough into the abdomen to pierce the stomach, but no farther. The struggling snarl turned to a gasping scream.

“Do remember, when you have something serious to say to me, start with ‘please’.” Haytham edged the knife free and let go of the prisoner who was twisting in pain. There was a stream of blood oozing down his side, the shirt sticking to the skin.

Haytham stood back a bit, watching the bound man and cleaning the blade with his handkerchief. The Questioner looked up at him, pain, horror, and defiance mixed in his features. His mouth opened to spew some obscenity, but all that came out was a bubble of blood bursting on his lips.

Haytham, satisfied, watched the struggle for a while. A wound like this would take days to die from. Days in vicious torment. He didn’t suppose the man’s will was strong enough to last until death came for him.

There were still scattered exclamations of loathing from the prisoner but the pain would eventually make him think on how he wanted his energy spent.

The lid of the kettle rattled in the fireplace and, shrugging to himself, Haytham let the prisoner be and carefully measured out the tealeaves; poured the boiling water in the teapot.

Once, when he had been wounded – _was it in Prague? Somewhere in Bayern?_ – the woman who tended to him had explained what she did with stomach-wounds: fed the sufferer onion-soup, and if she could smell onion when she sniffed the wound, she’d offer her patient a quick death.

No matter how long the Questioner, writhing in the chair, lasted, Haytham doubted he would feel compelled to extend the same courtesy.

He glanced at his pocket-watch and privately guessed at about four hours before the information came.

His gaze wandered to the door. Beyond in the parlour was Shay, and somehow his presence seemed to coil around Haytham’s thoughts. That tendency of his to question decisions if he felt they weren’t fair. Haytham turned his attention back to the tea, took a seat at the table, and found the book he’d brought.

_I appreciate the ethical reminder..._ He had said that to Shay just a few weeks ago. He sighed, annoyed.

Fine, then! If the Questioner lasted past ten in the evening, he’d have earned a quick death, Haytham decided. …Once the information was confirmed and the ring was back on his finger, of course! Ethics were all good and well, but shouldn’t interfere with practical matters.

There was nothing left now but to wait.

Haytham poured a cup of tea.


	8. Shay - Acceptance

The screams were farther in between now. But whether that was really an improvement, Shay couldn’t quite tell. No real movement was heard from the kitchen, none of the sounds he would have expected. The first few moments there’d been the buzz of a conversation, then the screams had begun, and for a long time, there was silence. Only the occasional wailing, pained howl, ending in subdued gasps before fading, escaped from the kitchen. About an hour ago, a loud clatter had been heard, but no further action seemed to emerge in the soundscape.

He shot to his feet, for about the thirtieth time that evening, and walked about the parlour a bit.

His eyes found Lee’s. They held each other’s gaze a moment. Shay sighed and kept pacing.

“Stop doing that, man! You make it look like you’re worried.” Charles finally snapped. He rose from the chair he’d been sitting patiently in for the last few hours.

“I’m not good at torture.” Shay stopped and studied Lee. There was a slight downwards pull in the corner of his mouth, a hand twitched as if to clench, but was forced rigid.

“Are you saying the Grand Master doesn’t have the right t–“

“No.” Shay just stated. “I’m saying I’m not good at torture.”

Lee shook his head slightly and sat down again.

A bubbly, subdued howl came from the kitchen. It sounded decidedly eerie as it travelled through the quiet house.

Shay sat down.

They sent each other a sideways glance.

“Does that unnerve you, Master Cormac?” Lee asked pointedly.

Shay couldn’t keep a quick laugh back. “Sod it, yes! It unnerves me. I’m glad I’m on his good side.”

Lee suddenly looked as though he was keeping back a smile under the moustache and nodded almost imperceptibly. He was about to say something when they heard movement from the kitchen. Haytham’s voice sounded, but Shay couldn’t discern the words. A little while later, footsteps approached the door and both Shay and Charles rose.

Haytham looked calm, unruffled, when he stepped into the parlour. He held a book in his hand, a finger stuck between the pages as though his reading had just been disturbed mid-sentence. Beyond him, Shay could see the chair with the prisoner lying toppled on the floor in the well-lit kitchen. A dark patch of blood was colouring his side. The man was facing the door where he lay, pale, shaking, breath heaving and uneven.

Shay wrested his gaze away from the prisoner in the kitchen and saw Haytham glance at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Twelve minutes past ten. Damn it…” the Grand Master muttered under his breath, before turning his attention away. “Gentlemen, do either of you know of a place called The Black Rose by the docks?” the Grand Master asked evenly.

“It’s a strumpet-house, Sir.” Shay supplied.

“A brothel?”

Shay nodded and earned a scathing sidelong glance from Lee. “We can’t all be happily married.” he shrugged.

“In the basement of said establishment is supposed to be a secret room used by the thieves. A woman there, called Miss Beth, can open it. I should like you both to go there, have a word with her and see if any of this is true. Please, make haste.” The Grand Master nodded them off and both immediately turned on their heels, but Shay cast a quick glance over his shoulder before leaving the room.

Haytham, oblivious to his attention, fished a watch from his vest pocket and looked at it, an annoyed frown on his face.


	9. Haytham - Rings

All the customers of the brothel had been seen out and the ladies of the house were all gathered in a central sitting-room, carefully guarded by the Temple’s soldiers. _Not the worst guard duty imaginable_ , Haytham vaguely mused as Charles led him into the cellar.

Shay was waiting by a shelf, opened outwards like a door.

“Have you found it?” Haytham asked.

“The small box on the shelf, Sir. You should see for yourself.” Shay said quietly, stepping aside.

The narrow room, lit by a lamp on a small table at the far wall, was lined with shelves on two sides. All were heavily laden with books, weapons of all kinds, carefully labelled bottles of drugs and poisons, bags spilling jewellery and money… 

Haytham slowly walked closer. A row of seven hidden blade gauntlets sat neatly on one shelf. His gaze slowly swept the goods. An unobtrusive wooden box sat in a corner. He slowly reached out and clicked it open. Five rings with the Templar cross lay there. He gingerly carried it to the table.

One of the rings was smaller than the others. He picked it up and turned it, seeing the mark on the inside of the band; a simple geometric figure, meaningless to anyone but him. Haytham knew every mark stamped in every ring. It had belonged to Cornelia Wright; her shield was the bright and sweet high-society Lady she let the world see. She had provided some impressive intelligence on everything and anything, eager to prevent others like herself from being caught in the old, secret war unwittingly. The thought of her dying, not by a quick blade to the neck, but by slow torture, rape, desperate, all alone… it nearly overwhelmed him and he clutched the ring in his newly healed hand until the painful cramps were strong enough to help steer him clear of the chaos. He couldn’t dwell too much on this. Not here. Not now.

He picked up another ring. Abner Smyth; living in the shadow of his loss. More focused on preventing Assassin plans than on anything else, as though his life held no other meaning.

Another ring was Shane Finnegan. The young man took every duty so deathly seriously that Haytham had been struck by the notion of following him to see if he could catch him smiling, if his face even had those muscles.

Then there was Emory Greenhill; the bone-dry, humble gentleman of letters who found his way to the Assassins on research alone, and was horrified at the knowledge he gained. He had been grateful when the Temple had rescued him.

Haytham’s fingers picked the last ring up. His own. Just another object in a pile of trophies.

_That’s all we are to each other…_ he thought blankly. _But their deaths weren’t even a part of a greater battle of beliefs. They were simply murdered by venomous, greedy snakes. Their deaths are meaningless._ He drew a deep breath, thankful his back was turned. _They died in vain. Pointless._

He slipped his ring on his finger. The familiar weight was strangely soothing. The fresh scars on his hand seemed less prominent. It was over. Normality restored. Only some basic mopping up left. He could leave now. And he desperately wanted to; the walls of the trophy room seemed to press in on him. But he forced himself to keep standing there, holding the rings, for a while longer until he was certain he felt the waste of life keenly enough to know it and control it.

“Master Cormac?” Haytham finally said, turning, putting the four rings in his pocket. Shay was standing in the cellar by the door, keeping a respectful distance.

“Sir?”

Haytham knocked on the shelf sporting the hidden blades. “Have these sent to Davenport, please. I don’t care how you do it, but make sure he understands the situation. Confiscate the rest. And make sure the woman who provided the key to this room is questioned thoroughly. I want all of these people found, but I’ve spent too much of my personal time on them.”

Shay moved aside to let Haytham pass and kept his thoughts to himself. “As you say, Sir.”

“I expect a report from you tomorrow at noon.”

Shay just gave a nod.

Haytham turned to Lee who regarded him vigilantly. “Master Lee… I’d be grateful if you’d go back to the safe-house and put an end to the prisoner. Since you were the intended victim, it seems only fair you have a hand in finishing this.”

“With great pleasure, Sir. Thank you.”

“Good man.” Haytham gave Lee’s shoulder a quick pat.

“Goodnight, gentlemen,” Haytham said and started up the stairs. Feeling cold, fresh air in his face was definitely a priority right now.

As soon as he was inside the waiting carriage, he opened the window, knocked to signal the driver and leaned back heavily in his seat.

_Trophies._ he thought. _What a hideous waste of life._


	10. Shay - Conclusion

Considering he’d spent most of the night at a brothel, he felt spectacularly unrelaxed, even after the hour’s sleep there was time for. He hurriedly shaved, washed and made himself presentable. Occasionally showing up at the Grand Master’s house decked out in a heap of weapons could be unavoidable, and was accepted, but having too much dodgy-looking traffic in a very polite and genteel neighbourhood wasn’t particularly welcome.

He had to run the last bit of way to make it in time. He’d never been late and didn’t feel like testing the Grand Master’s reaction if he was. Last night, when the Grand Master had come out of the trophy-room, Shay could have sworn he had seen, not the anger he’d expected, but sadness. Well hidden, but there. It had quietly shaken him, just a little. Somehow, it was easy to believe Haytham not quite human; cool, calm, in control.

The difference from Davenport was staggering, and Shay _needed_ Haytham’s level-headed guidance. But he was also not completely certain what kind of conclusion the Grand Master had drawn from this entire incident. He didn’t know what to expect.

He took the stairs up to the house two at a time and knocked on the door. It was opened immediately by the servant. Haytham was in the hall, putting on his coat. “Impeccable timing.” the Grand Master commented.

The clock in the hall struck twelve noon. Haytham almost smiled and took the hat the servant handed him. “I’m going out. I was hoping you’d be kind enough to report on the night’s events on the way. Shall we?” he gestured for the door.

“Of course, Sir.” Shay dutifully followed the Grand Master into the street and they walked in the direction of the city centre. The winter sun shone coldly from a pale, clear sky and it was possible to believe that spring might come eventually.

“So, tell me what happened,” Haytham said casually.

“The loot has been sorted, catalogued and packed and I send it to Master Lee, so he can add it to inventory. I also had a woman on the payroll take over the brothel, she’ll report immediately if anyone should ask for Miss Beth.”

“Good thinking. And did the lady reveal anything useful?”

“She did. There are five of them left, not counting her.”

“You believe her?”

Shay nodded slowly as they walked. “I think so. But she was obviously no stranger to physical pain. And, honestly, I wasn’t sure how much I could give her. What you’d accept. I won’t promise to let her live and then have to end her anyway. So I’ve moved her to Narrow House. I didn’t want to get in Master Lee’s way at North. She’s not going anywhere, and I’m going to find the people she gave me and verify.” He looked at Haytham and found him smiling, just a little. “Sir?” he asked.

“Oh, it just sparked an amusing idea. I want every one of these people firmly and irrevocably removed from the game-board, but you can safely promise to let her live. Feel free to inform her that neither Templars nor anyone associated with us, will harm her.”

Shay studied him for a while, unsure what to make of this declaration of mercy, and Haytham’s smile turned into something close to a grin.

“Yes, Master Cormac?”

“I’m confused, Sir.” Shay simply stated.

They sidestepped a group of other pedestrians and continued on their way.

“You have a list of names of her accomplices. Are any of them here?” Haytham asked.

“Yes. One of them. I have people out to secure him as we speak.”

“Excellent. Find out what he knows. If he verifies her claims, you can turn your attention to other matters.”

“As you say, Sir.” Shay nodded but kept up an inquisitive stare.

“Once we know we have their positions, it’s really just about mopping them up.”

“And the woman?”

“I thought I’d send her on a vacation to Davenport’s homestead. I’m sure it’s lovely in the springtime.”

Shay gave a small, incredulous laugh. “You have a cruel streak, Sir.”

“Perhaps, but in this case, it’s more of a courtesy, isn’t it? I’m certain Colonel Monro would have appreciated this; he was always one for fairness, even towards enemies. Davenport quite evidently lost people too. More than we did, in fact, as far as I can gather. But this action would also reek of throwing our garbage in the Assassins’ backyard. Both are oddly satisfying!”

“You know we’ll be competing with the white hoods to get to the remaining accomplices first.”

Haytham shrugged. “No harm in that. As long as they’re removed… Besides, it’s a problem less prominent people than you can take care of just as easily.” He paused a moment, then sighed. “Frankly, I’m more than eager to be able to consider this a closed chapter in my life. To relegate it to memory, rather than something current. But, as you reminded me, my moods directly affect the Order. And I can’t allow this to take up any more space. Besides, there are other things clamouring for my attention. _Our_ attention, actually.”

“You have something else for me, Sir?”

“I believe so. There seems to be some trouble brewing on the gang crime front, as far as I could tell from my cooperation with …Scratcher.” Haytham all but rolled his eyes. “…Honestly,” he added, “why are these people unable to sport a sensible, grown-up name?”

“It’s scarier than John or Ben?” Shay suggested.

“Being scratched? Subjected to a slight boo-boo?”

Shay laughed. “Don’t be too harsh, maybe he’s a bit insecure. His pecker could be tiny.”

Haytham gave a scoffing laugh. “You’d think someone a head taller than either of us, wouldn’t have that problem, theoretical contents of his trousers notwithstanding… But at any rate,” he continued, turning serious again, “There are rumours a woman is behind it. …Fitting the description of Miss Jensen of Assassin fame. Your efforts are better spent on that.”

“Oh…” Shay looked at his feet as they walked, all mirth winked out in an instant. Somewhere in his mind, there’d been a kind of dread hiding, which now ambushed him. In the last three and a half years, he’d known this was coming. It shouldn’t be different from knowing he’d have to fight any other former ally. But everything concerning Hope had always been… different. He sighed under his breath and looked up to meet the Grand Master’s gaze, wincing at himself at his ridiculously obvious hesitation.

“Don’t.” Haytham just commented. “It’s tragic it’s come to this. But it’s not your fault.”

“My mind agrees. My feelings don’t.” Shay said quietly. “But wishing won’t change anything.”

“Quite.”

They walked on in silence for a while, getting closer to the city centre and had to weave in and out between other traffic in the increasingly busy streets.

“Do you know Whitson’s and do you play?” Haytham finally asked.

“Whitson’s? No. …That’s a no.”

“Billiards?”

“Sir?”

“That’s where I’m going. It’s a billiards salon. I heard they recently got new tables, so I’m prepared to take the day off to enjoy a few games. If you want to join me, you’re more than welcome.”

Shay couldn’t keep a sudden laugh back. “Me, in a billiards salon?”

“Live and learn, Master Cormac.” Haytham smiled. “Unless of course you’re lying through your teeth by pretending not to play so I’ll go easy on you and you can flatten me…”

“Not bloody likely, Sir! I’m hardly of a quality that comes from a home with a billiards table.” he laughed.

“Don’t worry then, I’ll be happy to teach you.”

“Thank you. I’m sure it’ll push your patience to the limit.” Shay predicted.

“Then we’ll undoubtedly both have an interesting experience today.”

“Lead the way, Sir! I’m with you.”

Haytham gave him a smug smile. “I know. Your loyalty is highly valued, and since we’re on the subject… I seem to remember you telling me you _sort of_ knocked me out. …I’m just trying to wrap up the loose ends of the last two months, you understand.”

Shay gave a guilty cringe. “I did, Sir,” he said. “But… In my defence; you can be a really obstinate bastard, even when you’re more than halfway dead.”

Haytham gave him a bemused stare. “How is that a defence?”

“Well, you know… I still believe you’d likely have died if I hadn’t done what I did.”

Smiling, Haytham shook his head. “Perhaps we should work on that insolent attitude of yours… That being said, perhaps you are right.”

“I’ll do any penance you think reasonable, Sir. I know I overstepped my bounds.” Shay said seriously.

“I…” Haytham hesitated. “I resented you for having brought us so close to the Assassins. I snapped at you far too frequently. And I know I would most likely have died if you’d not been there. I should be the one apologising.”

Shay just shook his head, trying to remember if he’d ever felt under attack from Haytham in the last two months, and coming up empty handed. “I really have nothing to complain about, Sir. And I did what I did,” he said.

Haytham smiled. “All’s well, then, Master Cormac. I’ll settle for beating you at billiards.”


End file.
